Neglect.
Control.
Withholding.
Your father sleeps after they stabilize him. You sit beside his bed, holding the watch in your hand, running your thumb over the clasp your mother engraved.
At 2:14 a.m., he wakes.
“Bella?”
“I’m here.”
His eyes move around the room.
“She’s not here,” you say.
His shoulders drop with relief.
That one movement tells you more than any testimony could.
He looks ashamed.
“I let it happen.”
“No.”
“I signed things.”
“You were medicated.”
“I believed her when she said you didn’t want to come.”
Your throat tightens.
“What?”
He looks away.
“She told me she called you after the accident. She said you were too busy with your career. She said you told her you couldn’t handle seeing me like this.”
For a moment, you cannot speak.
Vivian did not just isolate him from you.
She used your absence as a weapon.
You take his hand carefully.
“I never got that call.”
